12/12: It was raining slush and ice for hours. Not a great way to begin maintenance of the walkway & driveway for the winter. Ice will be lurking under the newer layers of snow.
The dog refused his early morning outside 'adventure' until late this afternoon. The slush was up to his armpits (short dog). Smart animal :)
I didn't know he could 'hold it' for so long....hummm, maybe he didn't??...I should do a house patrol. He looks so innocent.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
snow & ice
12/11: Its snowing today and ice is coming. Dagnabit! Where are my crampons? Should I fill the bathtub with water? Is there a bottle of wine anywhere in the house?
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
The Winter Begins
12/8: At 13 degrees, it is freezing cold here today. One section of a nearby lake is frozen and the other is still open water. Our brook out back is solid ice. The resident beavers do their best to keep a hole open for their personal use. The local ski area is making snow today. And, yes, we really do use this hot tub :) Too funny!
12/3: Visiting my favorite thrift stores today. Wish me luck!
12/2: Two plowable snow storms this week. The old, yellow snow blower continues to limp its way down the long driveway year after year. Our newish (1978) wood stove throws more heat than the 1940's end heater, but I won't be quick to send the end heater to the dump. Its vintage, don't you know :)
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
missing my brick and mortar storefront
I’ve been missing my old brick & mortar storefront. Like childbirth, I only remember the good moments. The memories of enthusiastic customers, record sales days, and a sense of being part of the local community. The pain of a day with no sales, difficult customers, and mounting stacks of bills has been forgotten.
Like mothers who share childbirth stories, antique & junk sellers now share “my-old-store” stories. Community folklore was embellished at the counters of our once often-visited storefronts. Who bought what, where and for how much. Who kicked who out of their store. Which pool at the back of the auction hall bought the blue cupboard? Was the item a steal or a fair price? Why did “so and so”accept such a low price for that household? Is that a forged signature on the oil painting? Wasn’t our store the best in town. Remember.....
The community stories at the counter gradually changed to ebay success stories. And that was that.
I feel a similar nostalgia for my old store as I do for the years when my children were young. I'm happy to remember and not relive. The days were special then, but they are equally as special now. My store is now open 24/7 with no overhead, and I can come and go as I please. But, I miss my friends. My children still love me.
Like mothers who share childbirth stories, antique & junk sellers now share “my-old-store” stories. Community folklore was embellished at the counters of our once often-visited storefronts. Who bought what, where and for how much. Who kicked who out of their store. Which pool at the back of the auction hall bought the blue cupboard? Was the item a steal or a fair price? Why did “so and so”accept such a low price for that household? Is that a forged signature on the oil painting? Wasn’t our store the best in town. Remember.....
The community stories at the counter gradually changed to ebay success stories. And that was that.
I feel a similar nostalgia for my old store as I do for the years when my children were young. I'm happy to remember and not relive. The days were special then, but they are equally as special now. My store is now open 24/7 with no overhead, and I can come and go as I please. But, I miss my friends. My children still love me.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
my passion for shopping thrift
Essential check list: 1 bottle of cold water, 1 wire-form, flip-open standup laundry bag, cash money, checkbook & good attitude.
Destination: Favorite thrift shop
Crossing my fingers for a 50-cent-an-item day.
Yup - today was the day :)
If you shop thrift, you already know that the key to finding treasure is good luck. But, visit a thrift often and skill adds to the luck. Knowing the layout & inventory of a thrift store helps me organize my shopping. Because I buy to sell, I immediately head to the area of thrift where I am most likely to make a profit for my day’s work. Straight to the dresses, jewelry & handbags. Jackets, Sweaters and skirts next. Pants last. Shoes almost never. So, I shop in that order.
This is my best tip for thrift: Flip open that laundry bag! As you find items that look promising, toss them in your laundry bag. Don’t use valuable gathering time by examining each item before you put it in the bag. When your bag is full or you have finished shopping, take your stash to a sunny quiet area and examine all items carefully. There is no value in buying a once-gorgeous vintage dress if it is covered with stains, missing buttons or ready to disintegrate. Missing buttons, body odor, and split seams all go to my discard pile. I don’t have the time or patience to mend :) and body odor keeps coming back for a visit.
The following is my lucky list for good karma at thrift — which I don’t always follow as carefully as I should.
Remember to return every discarded item to where it was originally found — folded or back on a hanger.
°Never ask for a discount. Thrifts are usually non-profits.
°When possible round UP the amount due.
°Let other shoppers with fewer items check out first.
° If another shopper admires an item in my pile, I give them the item. Good karma. (This is my way of proving that an item doesn’t own me.)
Well, today’s laundry bag delivered a Dana Buchman 3-piece, reversible, evening pantsuit. A French designer ooak tunic with a stove pipe collar. A full-length designer dress by Yeohlee , a Vera Bradley bag, sequins, shoes made in the U.S.A. and 30 items of clothing for $24 — more inventory for my jumble of used merchandise selling at incognitoinmaine.etsy.com and in local shops in western Maine.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Driving my Thursday paper route is a job that I enjoy. Hadn’t planned on having a paper route. I needed money and the job was available. So, for three hours every Thursday morning, I drive through the small towns of Waterford, Stoneham, Harrison and Bridgton stopping at small stores to deliver bundles of our local, weekly newspaper and collecting money from the last week's sales.
For the most part, my “stops” are at small, locally-owned stores. My route does not make money. Sometimes (rarely) a store will sell just one 60-cent paper in a week. Not a big "take" considering the price of gas :) But — small, local businesses are a community lifeline in rural Maine, and we report to this community. Weddings & birth announcements, town meetings, local sports news, dueling columnists, obituaries and police reports find their way into these older stores that smell of coffee and bacon & eggs in the early morning — The stores with tilting floors and with walls that have never seen plumb. Pizza signs out front. Rickety picnic tables waiting for guests. The woman behind the counter that announces; “The paper lady is here.” (I love that!)
We should like our jobs. With that in mind, I listen to public radio for the entire 3 hours of my route. I keep my attention on my driving, and I am alert for anything that might surprise me.
I’m a memory collector. And, don’t you know — first time out delivering papers — driving down the back roads — early spring, not many leaves on the trees; I see several large brown mounds in a farm field. Not boulders, but placed around the field in a similar way. They moved. Buffalo! (Actually, Bison is the proper word. The words are used interchangeably, but real Buffalo live in Asia and Africa. Who would expect to find either in rural Maine?) The small store half a mile down the road sells bison burgers. Here was the living animal. It was my first surprise. I had to wait a full year to see them again in the same field. Both times were exciting. Yup, I'm keeping this job.
With a smile from Maine, karen
selling a jumble of used merchandise at incognitoinmaine.etsy.com
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
regal lady, mysterious man & italian pottery
It was twenty five years ago. We stood facing each other with a wide work counter between us. She was probably in her 80’s. Her hair was the color of spun copper. She was regal and in control. She had belongings to sell (the consignor), and my job was to price her belongings (the consignee). She stood at the counter and looked directly into my eyes. I loved her in a flash.
That day, the store was full of curious shoppers all milling around waiting for my copper-haired, regal customer to open her boxes. I began my inner chants: Please give me the knowledge to price her items correctly. If the contents of the box are worthless, please give me the words to tell her that each item has a value that can’t be measured in dollars or in this type of store. Please don’t let her be an impossible dragon queen.
A younger man accompanied her. He stood with his arms folded across his chest and never spoke. The mysterious man. Maybe he was her driver, maybe her son. Instinctively, I pushed him out of my line of vision. He was not part of the transaction. He was a “watcher.” I see him standing off to her right. He was not regal.
She explained to me that her husband had died; she needed to sell some of her personal belongings. The process of pricing began. She was prepared to sell her memories. She cried each time she brought an item out of the box. Every item immaculate and in perfect condition. At one point, she unwrapped two large, colorful, hand painted pottery pitchers. Her honeymoon had been in Italy. The pitchers were purchased on that trip.
(He stood there saying nothing.)
Already loving this woman, I also loved her pottery. The moral & practical dilemma for me was — You shouldn't price an item you love, especially if you feel connected to the consignor. I took the pitchers to the owner of the store and asked for a price. The response from the “back room” was $12.00 a piece. When my client left the store, I instantly purchased both pitchers. I own very few possessions from twenty five years ago, but the pitchers are still with me. I favor the one with the polka dots, but they are more appealing as a couple.
She came into the store one or two more times, and he was always with her. She always cried as we established prices for her possessions.
He may have loved her. He might have been her son.....But, at that time, I didn’t hold out any hope he would later offer soothing words to her or give her a gentle pat on her shoulder.
They will always be “her” pitchers. I bought them for her memories and kept the memories as my own. I look at these pitchers everyday and see a tiny, regal, copper-haired woman looking straight into my eyes.*
*My memory of this consignment has probably evolved over time. There is, almost always, another story behind each transaction in the antique business — He might have been the perfect son. She might have been a dragon queen. She could have been playing me. She probably was playing me. The pitchers might not have belonged to her. She may never been married. But — the pottery pitchers are still with me. Something happened over that consignment counter between the regal lady and my self. The pitchers hold the secrets. Maybe they were made in Portugal.
With a smile, incognitoinmaine www.incognitoinmaine.etsy.com
That day, the store was full of curious shoppers all milling around waiting for my copper-haired, regal customer to open her boxes. I began my inner chants: Please give me the knowledge to price her items correctly. If the contents of the box are worthless, please give me the words to tell her that each item has a value that can’t be measured in dollars or in this type of store. Please don’t let her be an impossible dragon queen.
A younger man accompanied her. He stood with his arms folded across his chest and never spoke. The mysterious man. Maybe he was her driver, maybe her son. Instinctively, I pushed him out of my line of vision. He was not part of the transaction. He was a “watcher.” I see him standing off to her right. He was not regal.
She explained to me that her husband had died; she needed to sell some of her personal belongings. The process of pricing began. She was prepared to sell her memories. She cried each time she brought an item out of the box. Every item immaculate and in perfect condition. At one point, she unwrapped two large, colorful, hand painted pottery pitchers. Her honeymoon had been in Italy. The pitchers were purchased on that trip.
(He stood there saying nothing.)
Already loving this woman, I also loved her pottery. The moral & practical dilemma for me was — You shouldn't price an item you love, especially if you feel connected to the consignor. I took the pitchers to the owner of the store and asked for a price. The response from the “back room” was $12.00 a piece. When my client left the store, I instantly purchased both pitchers. I own very few possessions from twenty five years ago, but the pitchers are still with me. I favor the one with the polka dots, but they are more appealing as a couple.
She came into the store one or two more times, and he was always with her. She always cried as we established prices for her possessions.
He may have loved her. He might have been her son.....But, at that time, I didn’t hold out any hope he would later offer soothing words to her or give her a gentle pat on her shoulder.
They will always be “her” pitchers. I bought them for her memories and kept the memories as my own. I look at these pitchers everyday and see a tiny, regal, copper-haired woman looking straight into my eyes.*
*My memory of this consignment has probably evolved over time. There is, almost always, another story behind each transaction in the antique business — He might have been the perfect son. She might have been a dragon queen. She could have been playing me. She probably was playing me. The pitchers might not have belonged to her. She may never been married. But — the pottery pitchers are still with me. Something happened over that consignment counter between the regal lady and my self. The pitchers hold the secrets. Maybe they were made in Portugal.
With a smile, incognitoinmaine www.incognitoinmaine.etsy.com
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